Truth and Knowledge 

Introduction to The Philosophy of 

Freedom  

 

By Rudolf Steiner 

 

 

This work, essentially Steiner's doctoral dissertation, which is subtitled 

Introduction to the Philosophy of Freedom. is just that: an essential 

work in the foundations of anthroposophy in which the epistemological 

foundations of spiritual cognition are clearly and logically laid forth.  

This is an authorized translation for the Western Hemisphere, and is 

presented here with the kind permission of the Rudolf Steiner-

Nachlassverwaltung, Dornach, Switzerland.  

Thanks to an anonymous donation, this lecture has been made 

available.  

 

 

To  

DR. EDUARD VON HARTMANN  

with the warm regard of the author  

 

CONTENTS  

 

Title Page of the First Edition of Truth and Knowledge 

Cover Sheet  

Bibliographical Note  

Contents  

Portrait of Rudolf Steiner  

Preface  

Introduction  

i. Preliminary Remarks  

ii. Kant's Basic Epistemological Question  

iii. Epistemology Since Kant  

iv. The Starting Point of Epistemology  

v. Cognition and Reality  

vi. Epistemology Free of Assumptions and Fichte's Science of 

Knowledge  

vii. Epistemological Conclusion  

viii. Practical Conclusion Editorial and Reference Notes  

 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE  

Rudolf Steiner's Die Philosophie der Freiheit was first published by the 

Emil Felber Verlag, Berlin, 1894 in a first edition of 1,000 copies.The 

second edition, revised and enlarged by the author, appeared under the 

imprint of the Philosophisch-Anthroposophischer Verlag, Berlin, 1918, 

and was followed by a third edition laterthat same year.  

The same publisher issued a fourth edition in 1921. 

The fifth, sixth and seventh editions were published in Dornach, 

Switzerland by the PhilosophischAnthroposophischer Verlag am 

Goetheanum in 1929, 1936 and 1939 respectively.The eighth edition 

was published in Dresden in 1940.The ninth, tenth and eleventh 

editions were published by the Verlag Freies Geistesleben, Stuttgart in 

1947, 1949 and 1955. The present translation has been made from the 

eleventh edition of 1955 

In all, the eleven editions of Die Philosophie der Freiheit issued 

between 1894 and 1955 totalled some 48,000 copies. A twelfth edition 

was issued in Dornach in 1962 by the Rudolf Steiner-

Nachlassverwaltung. The first English translation of the book appeared 

in London in 1916, translated by Prof. and Mrs. R. F. Alfred Hoernle 

and edited by Harry Collison. This was based on the first German 

edition of 1894.  

When the revised and enlarged German edition appeared in 1918, the 

same translators and editor brought out a second English translation of 

the work. This was published in London in 1921.  

A revised and amended edition of the 1921 version with preface by 

Hermann Poppelbaum, Ph.D. appeared in London, 1939 and again in 

1949.  

The present translation is entirely new, having been undertaken 

especially for the Centennial Edition of the Written Works of Rudolf 

Steiner.  

 

PREFACE  

 

PRESENT-DAY philosophy suffers from an unhealthy faith in Kant. 

This essay is intended to be a contribution toward overcoming this. It 

would be wrong to belittle this man's lasting contributions toward the 

development of German philosophy and science. But the time has come 

to recognize that the foundation for a truly satisfying view of the world 

and of life can be laid only by adopting a position which contrasts 

strongly with Kant's. What did he achieve? He showed that the 

foundation of things lying beyond the world of our senses and our 

reason, and which his predecessors sought to find by means of 

stereotyped concepts, is inaccessible to our faculty of knowledge. From 

this he concluded that our scientific efforts must be limited to what is 

within reach of experience, and that we cannot attain knowledge of the 

supersensible foundation, of the “thing-initself.” But suppose the 

“thing-in-itself” and a transcendental ultimate foundation of things are 

nothing but illusions! It is easy to see that this is the case. It is an 

instinctive urge, inseparable from human nature, to search for the 

fundamental nature of things and their ultimate principles. This is the 

basis of all scientific activity.  

There is, however, not the slightest reason for seeking the foundation of 

things  outside  the given physical and spiritual world, as long as a 

comprehensive investigation of this world does not lead to the 

discovery of elements within it that clearly point to an influence coming 

from beyond it.  

The aim of this essay is to show that everything necessary to explain 

and account for the world is within the reach of our thinking. The 

assumption that there are principles which belong to our world, but 

lying outside it, is revealed as the prejudice of an out-dated philosophy 

living in vain and illusory dogmas. Kant himself would have come to 

this conclusion had he really investigated the powers inherent in our 

thinking. Instead of this, he shows in the most complicated way that we 

cannot reach the ultimate principles existing beyond our direct 

experience, because of the way our faculty of knowledge functions. 

There is, however, no reason for transferring these principles into 

another world. Kant did indeed refute “dogmatic” philosophy, but he 

put nothing in its place. This is why Kant was opposed by the German 

 

philosophy which followed. Fichte, Schelling and Hegel did not worry 

in the least about the limits to cognition erected by Kant, but sought the 

ultimate principles within the world accessible to human reason. Even 

Schopenhauer, though he maintained that the conclusions of Kant's 

criticism of reason were eternal and irrefutable truths, found himself 

compelled to search for the ultimate cause along paths very different 

from those of Kant. The mistake of these thinkers was that they sought 

knowledge of the highest truths without having first laid a foundation 

by investigating the nature of knowledge itself. This is why the 

imposing edifice of thought erected by Fichte, Schelling and Hegel 

stands there, so to speak, without foundations. This had a bad effect on 

the direction taken by the thought of these philosophers. Because they 

did not understand the significance of the sphere of pure ideas and its 

relationship to the realm of sense-perceptions, they added mistake to 

mistake, one-sidedness to one-sidedness. It is no wonder that their all 

too daring systems could not withstand the fierce opposition of an 

epoch so ill-disposed toward philosophy; consequently, along with the 

errors much of real value in their thought was mercilessly swept away.  

The aim of the following inquiry is to remedy the lack described above. 

Unlike Kant, the purpose here is not to show what our faculty of 

knowledge  cannot  do, but rather to show what it is really able to 

achieve.  

The outcome of what follows is that truth is not, as is usually assumed, 

an ideal reflection of something real, but is a product of the human 

spirit, created by an activity which is free; this product would exist 

nowhere if we did not create it ourselves. The object of knowledge is 

not to repeat  in conceptual form something which already exists, but 

rather to create a completely new sphere, which when combined with 

the world given to our senses constitutes complete reality. Thus man's 

highest activity, his spiritual creativeness, is an organic part of the 

universal world-process.  

The world-process should not be considered a complete, enclosed 

totality without this activity. Man is not a passive onlooker in relation 

to evolution, merely repeating in mental pictures cosmic events taking 

place without his participation; he is the active co-creator of the world-

process, and cognition is the most perfect link in the organism of the 

universe.  

 

This insight has the most significant consequences for the laws that 

underlie our deeds, that is, our moral ideals; these, too, are to be 

considered not as copies of something existing outside us, but as being 

present solely within  us. This also means rejecting the “categorical 

imperative,” an external power whose commandments we have to 

accept as moral laws, comparable to a voice from the Beyond that tells 

us what to do or leave undone. Our moral ideals are our own free 

creations. We have to fulfill only what we ourselves lay down as our 

standard of conduct. Thus the insight that truth is the outcome of a free 

deed also establishes a philosophy of morality, the foundation of which 

is the completely free personality.  

This, of course, is valid only when our power of thinking penetrates — 

with complete insight — into the motivating impulses of our deeds. As 

long as we are not clear about the reasons — either natural or 

conceptual — for our conduct, we shall experience our motives as 

something compelling us from outside, even though someone on a 

higher level of spiritual development could recognize the extent to 

which our motives originated within our own individuality. Every time 

we succeed in penetrating a motive with clear understanding, we win a 

victory in the realm of freedom.  

The reader will come to see how this view — especially in its 

epistemological aspects — is related to that of the most significant 

philosophical work of our time, the world-view of Eduard von 

Hartmann.  

This essay constitutes a prologue to a The Philosophy of Freedom (The 

Philosophy of Spiritual Activity), a work which will appear shortly.  

Clearly, the ultimate goal of all knowledge is to enhance the value of 

human existence. He who does not consider this to be his ultimate goal, 

only works as he learned from those who taught him; he “investigates” 

because that happens to be what he has learned to do. He can never be 

called “an independent thinker.”  

The true value of learning lies in the philosophical demonstration of the 

significance of its results for humanity. It is my aim to contribute to 

this. But perhaps modern science does not ask for justification! If so, 

two things are certain. first, that I shall have written a superfluous 

work; second, that modern scholars are striving in vain, and do not 

 

know their own aims.  

In concluding this preface, I cannot omit a personal remark. Until now, 

I have always presented my philosophical views in connection with 

Goethe's world-view. I was first introduced to this by my revered 

teacher, Karl Julius Schroer who, in my view, reached such heights as a 

scholar of Goethe's work because he always looked beyond the 

particular to the Idea.  

In this work, however, I hope to have shown that the edifice of my 

thought is a whole that rests upon its own foundation, and need not be 

derived from Goethe's world-view. My thoughts, as here set forth, and 

as they will be further amplified in The Philosophy of Spiritual Activity, 

have been developed over many years. And it is with a feeling of deep 

gratitude that I here acknowledge how the friendliness of the Specht 

family in Vienna, while I was engaged in the education of their 

children, provided me with an ideal environment for developing these 

ideas; to this should be added that I owe the final shape of many 

thoughts now to be found in my “Philosophy of Spiritual Activity” to the 

stimulating talks with my deeply appreciated friend, Rosa Mayreder in 

Vienna; her own literary works, which spring from a sensitive, noble, 

artistic nature, presumably will soon be published.  

Written in Vienna in the beginning of December 1891.  

Dr. Rudolf Steiner  

 

INTRODUCTION  

 

THE OBJECT of the following discussion is to analyze the act of 

cognition and reduce it to its fundamental elements, in order to enable 

us to formulate the problem of knowledge correctly and to indicate a 

way to its solution. The discussion shows, through critical analysis, that 

no theory of knowledge based on Kant's line of thought can lead to a 

solution of the problems involved. However, it must be acknowledged 

that Volkelt's work, with its thorough examination of the concept of 

“experience” provided a foundation without which my attempt to 

define precisely the concept of the “given” would have been very much 

more difficult. It is hoped in this essay to lay a foundation for 

overcoming the subjectivism inherent in all theories of knowledge 

based on Kant's philosophy. Indeed, I believe I have achieved this by 

showing that the subjective form in which the picture of the world 

presents itself to us in the act of cognition — prior to any scientific 

explanation of it — is merely a necessary transitional stage which is 

overcome in the very process of knowledge. In fact the experience 

which positivism and neo-Kantianism advance as the one and only 

certainty is just the most subjective one of all. By showing this, the 

foundation is also laid for objective idealism, which is a necessary 

consequence of a properly understood theory of knowledge. This 

objective idealism differs from Hegel's metaphysical, absolute idealism, 

in that it seeks the reason for the division of reality into given existence 

and concept in the cognizing subject itself; and holds that this division 

is resolved, not in an objective world-dialectic but in the subjective 

process of cognition. I have already advanced this viewpoint in An 

Outline of a Theory of Knowledge, 1885, but my method of inquiry was 

a different one, nor did I analyze the basic elements in the act of 

cognition as will be done here.  

 

PRELIMINARY REMARKS  

 

EPISTEMOLOGY is the scientific study of what all other sciences 

presuppose without examining it: cognition  itself. It is thus a 

philosophical science, fundamental to all other sciences. Only through 

epistemology can we learn the value and significance of all insight 

gained through the other sciences. Thus it provides the foundation for 

all scientific effort. It is obvious that it can fulfill its proper function 

only by making no presuppositions itself, as far as this is possible, 

about man's faculty of knowledge. This is generally accepted. 

Nevertheless, when the better-known systems of epistemology are 

more closely examined it becomes apparent that a whole series of 

presuppositions are made at the beginning, which cast doubt on the 

rest of the argument. It is striking that such hidden assumptions are 

usually made at the outset, when the fundamental problems of 

epistemology are formulated. But if the essential problems of a science 

are misstated, the right solution is unlikely to be forthcoming. The 

history of science shows that whole epochs have suffered from 

innumerable mistakes which can be traced to the simple fact that 

certain problems were wrongly formulated. To illustrate this, we need 

not go back as far as Aristotle's physics or Raymond Lull's Ars Magna; 

there are plenty of more recent examples. For instance, innumerable 

problems concerning the purpose of rudimentary organs of certain 

organisms could only be rightly formulated when the condition for 

doing so had first been created through the discovery of the 

fundamental law of biogenesis. While biology was influenced by 

teleological views, the relevant problems could not be formulated in a 

way which could lead to a satisfactory answer. For example, what 

fantastic ideas were entertained concerning the function of the pineal 

gland in the human brain, as long as the emphasis was on its purpose! 

Then comparative anatomy threw some light on the matter by asking a 

different question; instead of asking what the organ was “for,” inquiry 

began as to whether, in man, it might be merely a remnant from a lower 

level of evolution. Another example: how many physical questions had 

to be modified after the discovery of the laws of the mechanical 

equivalent of heat and of conservation of energy! In short, success in 

scientific research depends essentially on whether the problems can be 

formulated rightly. Even though epistemology occupies a very special 

 

place as the basis presupposed by the other sciences, nevertheless, 

successful progress can only be expected when its fundamental 

problems are correctly formulated.  

The discussion which follows aims so to formulate the problem of 

cognition that in this very formulation it will do full justice to the 

essential feature of epistemology, namely, the fact that it is a science 

which must contain no presuppositions. A further aim is to use this 

philosophical basis for science to throw light on Johann Gottlieb 

Fichte's philosophy of science. Why Fichte's attempt in particular to 

provide an absolutely certain basis for the sciences is linked to the aims 

of this essay, will become clear in due course.  

 

KANT'S BASIC EPISTEMOLOGICAL QUESTION  

 

KANT IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED to be the founder of 

epistemology in the modern sense. However, the history of philosophy 

before  Kant contains a number of investigations which must be 

considered as more than mere beginnings  of such a science. Volkelt 

points to this in his standard work on epistemology, saying that critical 

treatments of this science began as early as Locke. However, 

discussions which today come under the heading of epistemology can 

be found as far back as in the philosophy of ancient Greece. Kant then 

went into every aspect of all the relevant problems, and innumerable 

thinkers following in his footsteps went over the ground so thoroughly 

that in their works or in Kant's are to be found repetitions of all earlier 

attempts to solve these problems. Thus where a factual  rather than a 

historical  study of epistemology is concerned, there is no danger of 

omitting anything important if one considers only the period since the 

appearance of Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.  

All earlier achievements in this field have been repeated since Kant.  

Kant's fundamental question concerning epistemology is: How are 

synthetical judgments a priori possible? Let us consider whether or not 

this question is free of presuppositions. Kant formulates it because he 

believes that we can arrive at certain, unconditional knowledge only if 

we can prove the validity of synthetical judgments a priori. He says:  

“In the solution of the above problem is comprehended at the same 

time the possibility of the use of pure reason in the foundation and 

construction of all sciences which contain theoretical knowledge a 

priori of objects.” “Upon the solution of this problem depends the 

existence or downfall of the science of metaphysics.”  

Is this problem as Kant formulates it, free of all presuppositions? Not at 

all, for it says that a system of absolute, certain knowledge can be 

erected only on a foundation of judgments that are synthetical and 

acquired independently of all experience. Kant calls a judgment 

“synthetical” where the concept of the predicate brings to the concept 

of the subject something which lies completely outside the subject — 

“although it stands in connection with the subject,” by contrast, in 

 

analytical judgment, the predicate merely expresses something which is 

already contained (though hidden) in the subject. It would be out of 

place here to go into the extremely acute objections made by Johannes 

Rehmke to this classification of judgments. For our present purpose it 

will suffice to recognize that we can arrive at true knowledge only 

through judgments which add one concept to another in such a way 

that the content of the second was not already contained — at least for 

us — in the first. If, with Kant, we wish to call this category of judgment 

synthetical, then it must be agreed that knowledge in the form of 

judgment can only be attained when the connection between predicate 

and subject is synthetical in this sense. But the position is different in 

regard to the second part of Kant's question, which demands that these 

judgments must be acquired a priori, i.e., independent of all 

experience. After all, it is conceivable that such judgments might not 

exist at all. A theory of knowledge must leave open, to begin with, the 

question of whether we can arrive at a judgment solely by means of 

experience, or by some other means as well. Indeed, to an unprejudiced 

mind it must seem that for something to be independent of experience 

in this way is impossible. For whatever object we are concerned to 

know, we must become aware of it directly and individually, that is, it 

must become experience. We acquire mathematical judgment too, only 

through direct experience of particular single examples. This is the case 

even if we regard them, with Otto Liebmann as rooted in a certain 

faculty of our consciousness. In this case, we must say: This or that 

proposition must be valid, for, if its truth were denied, consciousness 

would be denied as well; but we could only grasp its content, as 

knowledge, through experience in exactly the same way as we 

experience a process in outer nature. Irrespective of whether the 

content of such a proposition contains elements which guarantee its 

absolute validity or whether it is certain for other reasons, the fact 

remains that we cannot make it our own unless at some stage it 

becomes experience for us. This is the first objection to Kant's question.  

The second consists in the fact that at the beginning of a theoretical 

investigation of knowledge, one ought not to maintain that no valid and 

absolute knowledge can be obtained by means of experience. For it is 

quite conceivable that experience itself could contain some 

characteristic feature which would guarantee the validity of insight 

gained by means of it.  

 

Two presuppositions are thus contained in Kant's formulation of the 

question. One presupposition is that we need other means of gaining 

knowledge besides experience, and the second is that all knowledge 

gained through experience is only approximately valid. It does not 

occur to Kant that these principles need proof, that they are open to 

doubt. They are prejudices which he simply takes over from dogmatic 

philosophy and then uses as the basis of his critical investigations. 

Dogmatic philosophy assumes them to be valid, and simply uses them 

to arrive at knowledge accordingly; Kant makes the same assumptions 

and merely inquires under what conditions they are valid. But suppose 

they are not valid at all? In that case, the edifice of Kant's doctrine has 

no foundation whatever.  

All that Kant brings forward in the five paragraphs preceding his actual 

formulation of the problem, is an attempt to prove that mathematical 

judgments are synthetical (an attempt which Robert Zimmermann, if 

he does not refute it, at least shows it to be highly questionable). But 

the two assumptions discussed above are retained as scientific 

prejudices. In the Critique of Pure Reason it is said:  

“Experience no doubt teaches us that this or that object is constituted 

in such and such a manner, but not that it could not possibly exist 

otherwise.” “Experience never exhibits strict and absolute, but only 

assumed and comparative universality (by induction).”  

In Prolegomena we find it said:  

“Firstly, as regards the sources  of metaphysical knowledge, the very 

conception of the latter shows that these cannot be empirical. Its 

principles (under which not merely its axioms, but also its fundamental 

conceptions are included) must consequently never be derived from 

experience, since it is not physical  but  metaphysical  knowledge, i.e., 

knowledge beyond experience, that is wanted.”  

And finally Kant says:  

“Before all, be it observed, that proper mathematical propositions are 

always judgments a priori, and not empirical, because they carry along 

with them the conception of necessity, which cannot be given by 

experience. If this be demurred to, it matters not; I will then limit my 

assertion to pure  mathematics, the very conception of which implies 

 

that it consists of knowledge altogether non-empirical and a priori.”  

No matter where we open the Critique of Pure Reason we find that all 

the investigations pursued in it are based on these dogmatic principles. 

Cohen and Stadler attempt to prove that Kant has established the a 

priori nature of mathematical and purely scientific principles. However, 

all that the Critique of Pure Reason attempts to show can be summed 

up as follows: Mathematics and pure natural science are a priori 

sciences; from this it follows that the form of all experiences must be 

inherent in the subject itself. Therefore, the only thing left that is 

empirically given is the material of sensations. This is built up into a 

system of experiences, the form of which is inherent in the subject. The 

formal truths of a priori theories have meaning and significance only as 

principles which regulate the material of sensation; they make 

experience possible, but do not go further than experience. However, 

these formal truths are the synthetical judgment a priori, and they must 

— as condition necessary for experience — extend as far as experience 

itself. The Critique of Pure Reason does not at all prove that 

mathematics and pure science are a priori sciences but only establishes 

their sphere of validity, pre-supposing  that their truths are acquired 

independently of experience. Kant, in fact, avoids discussing the 

question of proof of the a priori sciences in that he simply excludes that 

section of mathematics (see conclusion of Kant's last statement quoted 

above) where even in his own opinion the a priori nature is open to 

doubt; and he limits himself to that section where he believes proof can 

be inferred from the concepts alone. Even Johannes Volkelt finds that:  

“Kant starts from the positive assumption that a necessary and 

universal knowledge exists as an actual fact. These presuppositions 

which Kant never specifically attempted to prove, are so contrary to a 

proper critical theory of knowledge that one must seriously ask oneself 

whether the Critique of Pure Reason is valid as critical epistemology.”  

Volkelt does find that there are good reasons for answering this 

question affirmatively, but he adds: “The critical conviction of Kant's 

theory of knowledge is nevertheless seriously disturbed by this 

dogmatic assumption.” It is evident from this that Volkelt, too, finds 

that the Critique of Pure Reason as a theory of knowledge, is not free of 

presuppositions.  

 

 

O. Liebmann, Hölder, Windelband, Ueberweg, Ed. v. Hartmann and 

Kuno Fischer, hold essentially similar views on this point, namely, that 

Kant bases his whole argument on the assumption  that knowledge of 

pure mathematics and natural science is acquired a priori.  

That we acquire knowledge independently of all experience, and that 

the insight gained from experience is of general value only to a limited 

extent, can only be conclusions derived from some other investigation. 

These assertions must definitely be preceded by an examination both of 

the nature of experience and of knowledge. Examination of experience 

could lead to the first principle; examination of knowledge, to the 

second.  

In reply to these criticisms of Kant's critique of reason, it could be said 

that every theory of knowledge must first lead the reader to where the 

starting point, free of all presuppositions, is to be found. For what we 

possess as knowledge at any moment in our life is far removed from 

this point, and we must first be led back to it artificially. In actual fact, 

it is a necessity for every epistemologist to come to such a purely 

didactic arrangement concerning the starting point of this science. But 

this must always be limited merely to showing to what extent the 

starting point for cognition really is the absolute start; it must be 

presented in purely self evident, analytical sentences and, unlike Kant's 

argument, contain no assertions which will influence the content of the 

subsequent discussion. It is also incumbent on the epistemologist to 

show that his starting point is really free of all presuppositions. All this, 

however, has nothing to do with the nature of the starting point itself, 

but is quite independent of it and makes no assertions about it. Even 

when he begins to teach mathematics, the teacher must try to convince 

the pupil that certain truths are to be understood as axioms. But no one 

would assert that the content of the axioms is made dependent on these 

preliminary considerations. [In the chapter titled “The Starting Point of 

Epistemology,” I shall show to what extent my discussion fulfils these 

conditions.] In exactly the same way the epistemologist must show in 

his introductory remarks how one can arrive at a starting point free of 

all presuppositions; yet the actual content of this starting point must be 

quite independent of these considerations. However, anyone who, like 

Kant, makes definite, dogmatic assertions at the very outset, is certainly 

very far from fulfilling these conditions when he introduces his theory 

of knowledge. 

 

EPISTEMOLOGY SINCE KANT  

 

ALL PROPOUNDERS of theories of knowledge since Kant have been 

influenced to a greater or lesser degree by the mistaken way he 

formulated the problem of knowledge. As a result of his “a priorism” he 

advanced the view that all objects given to us are our representations. 

Ever since, this view has been made the basic principle and starting 

point of practically all epistemological systems. The only thing we can 

establish as an immediate certainty is the principle that we are aware of 

our representations; this principle has become an almost universally 

accepted belief of philosophers. As early as 1792 G. E. Schulze 

maintained in his Aenesidemus that all our knowledge consists of mere 

representations, and that we can never go beyond our representations. 

Schopenhauer, with a characteristic philosophical fervor, puts forward 

the view that the enduring achievement of Kantian philosophy is the 

principle that the world is “my representation.” Eduard von Hartmann 

finds this principle so irrefutable that in his book, Kritische 

Grundlegung des transzendentalen Realismus (Critical Basis of 

Transcendental Realism) he assumes that his readers, by critical 

reflection, have overcome the naive identification of the perceptual 

picture with the thing-in-itself, that they have convinced themselves of 

the absolute diversity of the subjective-ideal content of consciousness 

— given as perceptual object through the act of representing — and the 

thing existing by itself, independent both of the act of representing and 

of the form of consciousness; in other words, readers who have entirely 

convinced themselves that the totality  of  what  is  given  us  directly 

consists of our representations. In his final work on epistemology, 

Eduard von Hartmann did attempt to provide a foundation for this 

view. The validity of this in relation to a theory of knowledge free from 

presuppositions, will be discussed later. Otto Liebmann claims that the 

principle:  

“Consciousness cannot jump beyond itself” must be the inviolable and 

foremost principle of any science of knowledge. Volkelt is of the 

opinion that the first and most immediate truth is: “All our knowledge 

extends, to begin with, only as far as our representations” he called this 

the most positive principle of knowledge, and considered a theory of 

knowledge to be “eminently critical” only if it “considers this principle 

 

as the sole stable point from which to begin all philosophizing, and 

from then on thinks it through consistently.” Other philosophers make 

other assertions the center of epistemology, e.g.: the essential problem 

is the question of the relation between thinking and existence, as well 

as the possibility of mediation between them, or again: How does that 

which exists become conscious? (Rehmke) etc. Kirchmann starts from 

two epistemological axioms: “the perceived is” and “the contradictory is 

not.”  

According to E. L. Fischer knowledge consists in the recognition of 

something factual and real. He lays down this dogma without proof as 

does Goring, who maintains something similar: “Knowledge always 

means recognizing something that exists; this is a fact that neither 

scepticism nor Kantian criticism can deny.” The two latter philosophers 

simply lay down the law: This they say is knowledge, without judging 

themselves.  

Even if these different assertions were correct, or led to a correct 

formulation of the problem, the place to discuss them is definitely not 

at the beginning of a theory of knowledge. For they all represent at the 

outset a quite specific insight into the sphere of knowledge. To say that 

my knowledge extends to begin with only as far as my representations, 

is to express a quite definite judgment about cognition. In this sentence 

I add a predicate to the world given to me, namely, its existence in the 

form of representation. But how do I know, prior to all knowledge, that 

the things given to me are representations?  

Thus this principle ought not to be placed at the foundation of a theory 

of knowledge; that this is true is most easily appreciated by tracing the 

line of thought that leads up to it. This principle has become in effect a 

part of the whole modern scientific consciousness. The considerations 

which have led to it are to be found systematically and comprehensively 

summarized in Part I of Eduard von Hartmann's book, Das 

Grundproblem der Erkenntnistheorie (The Fundamental Problem of 

Epistemology). What is advanced there can thus serve as a kind of 

guide when discussing the reasons that led to the above assumption.  

These reasons are physical, psycho-physical, physiological, as well as 

philosophical. The physicist who observes phenomena that occur in our 

environment when, for instance, we perceive a sound, is led to conclude 

that these phenomena have not the slightest resemblance to what we 

 

directly perceive as sound. Out there in the space surrounding us, 

nothing is to be found except vibrations of material bodies and of air. It 

is concluded from this that what we ordinarily call sound or tone is 

solely a subjective reaction of our organism to those wave-like 

movements. Likewise it is found that light, color and heat are 

something purely subjective. The phenomena of color-diffraction, 

refraction, interference and polarization show that these sensations 

correspond to certain transverse vibrations in external space, which, so 

it is thought, must be ascribed partly to material bodies, partly to an 

infinitely fine elastic substance, the ether. Furthermore, because of 

certain physical phenomena, the physicist finds himself compelled to 

abandon the belief in the continuity of objects in space, and to analyze 

them into systems of minute particles (molecules, atoms) the size of 

which, in relation to the distance between them, is immeasurably small. 

Thus he concludes that material bodies affect one another across empty 

space, so that in reality force is exerted from a distance. The physicist 

believes he is justified in assuming that a material body does not affect 

our senses of touch and warmth by direct contact, because there must 

be a certain distance, even if very small, between the body and the place 

where it touches the skin. From this he concludes further that what we 

sense as the hardness or warmth of a body, for example, is only the 

reaction of the peripheral nerves of our senses of touch and warmth to 

the  molecular forces of bodies which act upon them across empty 

space.  

These considerations of the physicist are amplified by those of the 

psycho-physicist in the form of a science of specific sense-energies. J. 

Müller has shown that each sense can be affected only in a 

characteristic manner which is conditioned by its structure, so that it 

always reacts in the same way to any external stimulus. If the optic 

nerve is stimulated, there is a sensation of light, whether the stimulus is 

in the form of pressure, electric current, or light. On the other hand, the 

same external phenomenon produces quite different sensations, 

according to which sense organ transmits it. This leads to the 

conclusion that there is only one  kind of phenomenon in the external 

world, namely motion, and that the many aspects of the world which 

we perceive derive essentially from the reaction of our senses to this 

phenomenon. According to this view, we do not perceive the external 

world. itself, but merely the subjective sensations which it releases in 

us.  

 

Thus physiology is added to physics. Physics deals with the phenomena 

occurring outside our organism to which our perceptions correspond; 

physiology aims to investigate the processes that occur in man's body 

when he experiences a certain sense impression. It shows that the 

epidermis is completely insensitive to external stimuli. In order to 

reach the nerves connected with our sense of touch on the periphery of 

the body, an external vibration must first be transmitted through the 

epidermis. In the case of hearing and vision the external motion is 

further modified through a number of organs in these sense-tools, 

before it reaches the corresponding nerve. These effects, produced in 

the organs at the periphery of the body, now have to be conducted 

through the nerve to the central organ, where sensations are finally 

produced through purely mechanical processes in the brain. It is 

obvious that the stimulus which acts on the sense organ is so changed 

through these modifications that there can be no similarity between 

what first affected the sense organs, and the sensations that finally arise 

in consciousness. The result of these considerations is summed up by 

Hartmann in the following words:  

“The content of consciousness consists fundamentally of the sensations 

which are the soul's reflex response to processes of movement in the 

uppermost part of the brain, and these have not the slightest 

resemblance to the molecular movements which called them into 

being.”  

If this line of thought is correct and is pursued to its conclusion, it must 

then be admitted that our consciousness does not contain the slightest 

element of what could be called external existence.  

To the physical and physiological arguments against so-called “naive 

realism” Hartmann adds further objections which he describes as 

essentially philosophical. A logical examination of the first two 

objections reveals that in fact one can arrive at the above result only by 

first assuming the existence and interrelations of external things, as 

ordinary naive consciousness does, and then investigating how this 

external world enters our consciousness by means of our organism. We 

have seen that between receiving a sense impression and becoming 

conscious of a sensation, every trace of such an external world is lost, 

and all that remains in consciousness are our representations. We must 

therefore assume that our picture of the external world is built up by 

 

the soul, using the material of sensations. First of all, a spatial picture is 

constructed using the sensations produced by sight and touch, and 

sensations arising from the other senses are then added. When we are 

compelled to think of a certain complex of sensations as connected, we 

are led to the concept of matter, which we consider to be the carrier of 

sensations. If we notice that some sensations associated with a 

substance disappear, while others arise, we ascribe this to a change 

regulated by the causal laws in the world of phenomena. According to 

this view, our whole world-picture is composed of subjective sensations 

arranged by our own soul-activity. Hartmann says: “Thus all that the 

subject perceives are modifications of its own soul-condition and 

nothing else.”  

Let us examine how this conviction is arrived at. The argument may be 

summarized as follows: If an external world exists then we do not 

perceive it as such, but through our organism transform it into a world 

of representations. When followed out consistently, this is a self-

canceling assumption. In any case, can this argument be used to 

establish any conviction at all? Are we justified in regarding our given 

world-picture as a subjective content of representations, just because 

we arrive inevitably at this conclusion if we start from the assumption 

made by naive consciousness? After all, the aim was just to prove this 

assumption invalid. It should then be possible for an assertion to be 

wrong, and yet lead to a correct result. This can happen, but the result 

cannot then be said to have been proved by the assertion.  

The view which accepts the reality of our directly given picture of the 

world as certain and beyond doubt, is usually called naive realism. The 

opposite view, which regards this world-picture as merely the content 

of our consciousness, is called transcendental idealism. Thus the 

preceding discussion could also be summarized as follows:  

Transcendental idealism demonstrates its truth by using the same 

premises as the naive realism which it aims to refute. Transcendental 

idealism is justified if naive realism is proved incorrect, but its 

incorrectness is only demonstrated by means of the incorrect view 

itself. Once this is realized there is no alternative but to abandon this 

path and to attempt to arrive at another view of the world. Does this 

mean proceeding by trial and error until we happen to hit on the right 

one? That is Hartmann's approach when he believes his 

 

epistemological standpoint established on the grounds that his view 

explains the phenomena, whereas others do not. According to him the 

various world-views are engaged in a sort of struggle for existence in 

which the fittest is ultimately accepted as victor. But the inconsistency 

of this procedure is immediately apparent, for there might well be other 

hypotheses which would explain the phenomena equally satisfactorily. 

For this reason we prefer to adhere to the above argument for the 

refuting of naive realism, and investigate precisely where its weakness 

lies. After all, naive realism is the viewpoint from which we all start. It 

is therefore the proper starting-point for a critical investigation. By 

recognizing its shortcomings we shall be led to the right path much 

more surely than by simply trusting to luck.  

The subjectivism outlined above is based on the use of thinking for 

elaborating certain facts. This presupposes that, starting from certain 

facts, a correct conclusion can be obtained through logical thinking 

(logical combination of particular observations). But the justification 

for using thinking in this way is not examined by this philosophical 

approach. This is its weakness. While naive realism begins by assuming 

that the content of experience, as we perceive it, is an objective reality 

without examining if this is so, the standpoint just characterized sets 

out from the equally uncritical conviction that thinking can be used to 

arrive at scientifically valid conclusions. In contrast to naive realism, 

this view could be called naive rationalism. To justify this term, a brief 

comment on the concept of “naive” is necessary here. A. Döring tries to 

define this concept in his essay, Ueber den Begriff des naiven 

Realismus (Concerning the Concept of naive Realism). He says:  

“The concept 'naive' designates the zero point in the scale of reflection 

about one's own relation to what one is doing. A naive content may well 

be correct, for although it is unreflecting and therefore simply non-

critical or uncritical, this lack of reflection and criticism excludes the 

objective assurance of truth, and includes the possibility and danger of 

error, yet by no means necessitates them. One can be equally naive in 

one's life of feeling and will, as in the life of representing and thinking 

in the widest sense; furthermore, one may express this inner life in a 

naive manner rather than repressing and modifying it through 

consideration and reflection. To be naive means not to be influenced, or 

at least not consciously influenced by tradition, education or rules; it 

means to be, in all spheres of life, what the root of the word: 'nativus' 

 

implies. i.e., unconscious, impulsive, instinctive, daimonic.”  

Starting from this, we will endeavor to define “naive” still more 

precisely. In all our activities, two things must be taken into account: 

the activity itself, and our knowledge of its laws. We may be completely 

absorbed in the activity without worrying about its laws. The artist is in 

this position when he does not reflect about the laws according to 

which he creates, but applies  them, using feeling and sensitivity. We 

may call him “naive.” It is possible, however, to observe oneself, and 

enquire into the laws inherent in one's own activity, thus abandoning 

the naive consciousness just described through knowing exactly the 

scope of and justification for what one does. This I shall call critical. I 

believe this definition comes nearest to the meaning of this concept as 

it has been used in philosophy, with greater or lesser clarity, ever since 

Kant. Critical reflection then is the opposite of the naive approach. A 

critical attitude is one that comes to grips with the laws of its own 

activity in order to discover their reliability and limits. Epistemology 

can only be a critical science. For its object is an essentially subjective 

activity of man: cognition, and it wishes to demonstrate the laws 

inherent in cognition. Thus everything “naive” must be excluded from 

this science. Its strength must lie in doing precisely what many 

thinkers, inclined more toward the practical doing of things, pride 

themselves that they have never done, namely, “think about thinking.”  

 

THE STARTING POINT OF EPISTEMOLOGY  

 

AS WE HAVE SEEN in the preceding chapters, an epistemological 

investigation must begin by rejecting existing knowledge. Knowledge is 

something brought into existence by man, something that has arisen 

through his activity. If a theory of knowledge is really to explain the 

whole  sphere of knowledge, then it must start from something still 

quite untouched by the activity of thinking, and what is more, from 

something which lends to this activity its first impulse. This starting 

point must lie outside the act of cognition, it must not itself be 

knowledge.  But  it  must  be  sought  immediately  prior to cognition, so 

that the very next step man takes beyond it is the activity of cognition. 

This absolute starting point must be determined in such a way that it 

admits nothing already derived from cognition.  

Only our directly given world-picture can offer such a starting point, 

i.e. that picture of the world which presents itself to man before he has 

subjected it to the processes of knowledge in any way, before he has 

asserted or decided anything at all about it by means of thinking. This 

“directly given” picture is what flits past us, disconnected, but still 

undifferentiated. [Differentiation of the given, indistinct, world picture 

into distinct entities is already an act of thought-activity.] In it, nothing 

appears distinguished from, related to, or determined by, anything else. 

At this stage, so to speak, no object or event is yet more important or 

significant than any other. The most rudimentary organ of an animal, 

which, in the light of further knowledge may turn out to be quite 

unimportant for its development and life, appears before us with the 

same claims for our attention as the noblest and most essential part of 

the organism. Before our conceptual activity begins, the world-picture 

contains neither substance, quality nor cause and effect; distinctions 

between matter and spirit, body and soul, do not yet exist. 

Furthermore, any other predicate must also be excluded from the 

world-picture at this stage. The picture can be considered neither as 

reality nor as appearance, neither subjective nor objective, neither as 

chance nor as necessity; whether it is “thing-in-itself,” or mere 

representation, cannot be decided at this stage. For, as we have seen, 

knowledge of physics and physiology which leads to a classification of 

the “given” under one or the other of the above headings, cannot be a 

 

basis for a theory of knowledge.  

If a being with a fully developed human intelligence were suddenly 

created out of nothing and then confronted the world, the first 

impression made on his senses and his thinking would be something 

like what I have just characterized as the directly given world-picture. 

In practice, man never encounters this world-picture in this form at any 

time in his life; he never experiences a division between a purely 

passive awareness of the “directly-given” and a thinking recognition of 

it. This fact could lead to doubt about my description of the starting 

point for a theory of knowledge. Hartmann says for example:  

“We are not concerned with the hypothetical content of consciousness 

in a child which is just becoming conscious or in an animal at the 

lowest level of life, since the philosophizing human being has no 

experience of this; if he tries to reconstruct the content of 

consciousness of beings on primitive biogenetic or ontogenetic levels, 

he must base his conclusions on the way he experiences his own 

consciousness. Our first task, therefore, is to establish the content of 

man's consciousness when he begins philosophical reflection.”  

The objection to this, however, is that the world-picture with which we 

begin philosophical reflection already contains predicates mediated 

through cognition. These cannot be accepted uncritically, but must be 

carefully removed from the world-picture so that it can be considered 

free of anything introduced through the process of knowledge. This 

division between the “given” and the “known” will not in fact, coincide 

with any stage of human development; the boundary must be drawn 

artificially. But this can be done at every level of development so long 

as we draw the dividing line correctly between what confronts us free of 

all conceptual definitions, and what cognition subsequently makes of it.  

It might be objected here that I have already made use of a number of 

conceptual definitions in order to extract from the world-picture as it 

appears when completed by man, that other world-picture which I 

described as the directly given. However, what we have extracted by 

means of thought does not characterize the directly given world-

picture, nor define nor express anything about it; what it does is to 

guide our attention to the dividing line where the starting point for 

cognition is to be found. The question of truth or error, correctness or 

incorrectness, does not enter into this statement, which is concerned 

 

with the moment preceding the point where a theory of knowledge 

begins. It serves merely to guide us deliberately to this starting point. 

No one proceeding to consider epistemological questions could 

possibly be said to be standing at the starting point of cognition, for he 

already possesses a certain amount of knowledge. To remove from this 

all that has been contributed by cognition, and to establish a pre-

cognitive starting point, can only be done conceptually. But such 

concepts are not of value as knowledge; they have the purely negative 

function of removing from sight all that belongs to knowledge and of 

leading us to the point where knowledge begins. These considerations 

act as signposts pointing to where the act of cognition first appears, but 

at this stage, do not themselves form part of the act of cognition. 

Whatever the epistemologist proposes in order to establish his starting 

point raises, to begin with, no question of truth or error, but only of its 

suitability for this task. From the starting point, too, all error is 

excluded, for error can only begin with cognition, and therefore cannot 

arise before cognition sets in.  

Only a theory of knowledge that starts from considerations of this kind 

can claim to observe this last principle. For if the starting point is some 

object (or subject) to which is attached any conceptual definition, then 

the possibility of error is already present in the starting point, namely 

in the definition itself. Justification of the definition will then depend 

upon the laws inherent in the act of cognition. But these laws can be 

discovered only in the course of the epistemological investigation itself. 

Error is wholly excluded only by saying: I eliminate from my world-

picture all conceptual definitions arrived at through cognition and 

retain only what enters my field of observation without any activity on 

my part. When on principle I refrain from making any statement, I 

cannot make a mistake.  

Error, in relation to knowledge, i.e. epistemologically, can occur only 

within the act of cognition. Sense deceptions are not errors. That the 

moon upon rising appears larger than it does at its zenith is not an 

error but a fact governed by the laws of nature. A mistake in knowledge 

would occur only if, in using thinking to combine the given perceptions, 

we misinterpreted “larger” and “smaller.” But this interpretation is part 

of the act of cognition.  

 

 

To understand cognition exactly in all its details, its origin and starting 

point must first be grasped. It is clear, furthermore, that what precedes 

this primary starting point must not be included in an explanation of 

cognition, but must be presupposed. Investigation of the essence of 

what is here presupposed, is the task of the various branches of 

scientific knowledge. The present aim, however, is not to acquire 

specific knowledge of this or that element, but to investigate cognition 

itself. Until we have understood the act of knowledge, we cannot judge 

the significance of statements about the content of the world arrived at 

through the act of cognition.  

This is why the directly given is not defined as long as the relation of 

such a definition to what is defined is not known. Even the concept: 

“directly given” includes no statement about what precedes cognition. 

Its only purpose is to point to this given, to turn our attention to it. At 

the starting point of a theory of knowledge, the concept is only the first 

initial relation between cognition and world-content. This description 

even allows for the possibility that the total world-content would turn 

out to be only a figment of our own “I,” which would mean that extreme 

subjectivism would be true; subjectivism is not something that exists as 

given. It can only be a conclusion drawn from considerations based on 

cognition, i.e. it would have to be confirmed by the theory of 

knowledge; it could not be assumed as its basis.  

This directly given world-content includes everything that enters our 

experience in the widest sense: sensations. perceptions, opinions, 

feelings, deeds, pictures of dreams and imaginations, representations, 

concepts and ideas. Illusions and hallucinations too, at this stage are 

equal to the rest of the world-content. For their relation to other 

perceptions can be revealed only through observation based on 

cognition.  

When epistemology starts from the assumption that all the elements 

just mentioned constitute the content of our consciousness, the 

following question immediately arises: How is it possible for us to go 

beyond our consciousness and recognize actual existence; where can 

the leap be made from our subjective experiences to what lies beyond 

them? When such an assumption is not made, the situation is different. 

Both consciousness and the representation of the “I” are, to begin with, 

only parts of the directly given and the relationship of the latter to the 

 

two former must be discovered by means of cognition. Cognition is not 

to be defined in terms of consciousness, but vice versa: both 

consciousness and the relation between subject and object in terms of 

cognition. Since the “given” is left without predicate, to begin with, the 

question arises as to how it is defined at all; how can any start be made 

with cognition? How does one part of the world-picture come to be 

designated as perception and the other as concept, one thing as 

existence, another as appearance, this as cause and that as effect; how 

is it that we can separate ourselves from what is objective and regard 

ourselves as “I” in contrast to the “not-I?”  

We must find the bridge from the world-picture as given, to that other 

world-picture which we build up by means of cognition. Here, however, 

we meet with the following difficulty: As long as we merely stare 

passively at the given we shall never find a point of attack where we can 

gain a foothold, and from where we can then proceed with cognition. 

Somewhere in the given we must find a place where we can set to work, 

where something exists which is akin to cognition. If everything were 

really  only  given, we could do no more than merely stare into the 

external world and stare indifferently into the inner world of our 

individuality. We would at most be able to describe things as something 

external to us; we should never be able to understand  them. Our 

concepts would have a purely external relation to that to which they 

referred; they would not be inwardly related to it. For real cognition 

depends on finding a sphere somewhere in the given where our 

cognizing activity does not merely presuppose something given, but 

finds itself active in the very essence of the given. In other words: 

precisely through strict adherence to the given as merely given, it must 

become apparent that not everything is given. Insistence on the given 

alone must lead to the discovery of something which goes beyond the 

given. The reason for so insisting is not to establish some arbitrary 

starting point for a theory of knowledge, but to discover the true one. In 

this sense, the given also includes what according to its very nature is 

not-given. The latter would appear, to begin with, as formally a part of 

the given, but on closer scrutiny, would reveal its true nature of its own 

accord.  

The whole difficulty in understanding cognition comes from the fact 

that we ourselves do not create the content of the world. If we did this, 

cognition would not exist at all. I can only ask questions about 

 

something which is given to me. Something which I create myself, I 

also determine myself, so that I do not need to ask for an explanation 

for it.  

This is the second step in our theory  of  knowledge.  It  consists  in  the 

postulate: In the sphere of the given there must be something in 

relation to which our activity does not hover in emptiness, but where 

the content of the world itself enters this activity.  

The starting point for our theory of knowledge was placed so that it 

completely  precedes  the cognizing activity, and thus cannot prejudice 

cognition and obscure it; in the same way, the next step has been 

defined so that there can be no question of either error or 

incorrectness. For this step does not prejudge any issue, but merely 

shows what conditions are necessary if knowledge is to arise at all. It is 

essential to remember that it is we ourselves who postulate what 

characteristic feature that part of the world-content must possess with 

which our activity of cognition can make a start.  

This, in fact, is the only thing we can do. For the world-content as given 

is completely undefined. No part of it of its own accord can provide the 

occasion for setting it up as the starting point for bringing order into 

chaos. The activity of cognition must therefore issue a decree and 

declare what characteristics this starting point must manifest. Such a 

decree in no way infringes on the quality of the given. It does not 

introduce any arbitrary assertion into the science of epistemology. In 

fact, it asserts nothing, but claims only that if knowledge is to be made 

explainable, then we must look for some part of the given which can 

provide a starting point for cognition, as described above. If this exists, 

cognition can be explained, but not otherwise. Thus, while the given 

provides the general starting point for our theory of knowledge, it must 

now be narrowed down to some particular point of the given.  

Let us now take a closer look at this demand. Where, within the world-

picture, do we find something that is not merely given, but only given 

insofar as it is being produced in the actual act of cognition?  

It is essential to realize that the activity of producing something in the 

act of cognition must present itself to us as something also directly 

given. It must not be necessary to draw conclusions before recognizing 

it. This at once indicates that sense impressions do not meet our 

 

requirements. For we cannot know directly but only indirectly that 

sense impressions do not occur without activity on our part; this we 

discover only by considering physical and physiological factors. But we 

do know absolutely directly that concepts and ideas appear only in the 

act of cognition and through this enter the sphere of the directly given. 

In this respect concepts and ideas do not deceive anyone. A 

hallucination may appear as something externally given, but one would 

never take one's own concepts to be something given without one's own 

thinking activity. A lunatic regards things and relations as real to which 

are applied the predicate “reality,” although in fact they are not real; 

but he would never say that his concepts and ideas entered the sphere 

of the given without his own activity. It is a characteristic feature of all 

the rest of our world-picture  that  it  must  be  given  if we are to 

experience it; the only case in which the opposite occurs is that of 

concepts and ideas: these we must produce if we are to experience 

them. Concepts and ideas alone are given us in a form that could be 

called intellectual seeing. Kant and the later philosophers who follow in 

his steps, completely deny this ability to man, because it is said that all 

thinking refers only to objects and does not itself produce anything. In 

intellectual seeing the content must be contained within the thought-

form itself. But is this not precisely the case with pure concepts and 

ideas? (By concept, I mean a principle according to which the 

disconnected elements of perception become joined into a unity. 

Causality, for example, is a concept. An idea is a concept with a greater 

content. Organism, considered quite abstractly, is an idea.) However, 

they must be considered in the form which they possess while still quite 

free of any empirical content. If, for example, the pure idea of causality 

is to be grasped, then one must not choose a particular instance of 

causality or the sum total of all causality; it is essential to take hold of 

the pure concept, Causality. Cause and  effect  must  be  sought  in  the 

world, but before we can discover it in the world we ourselves must first 

produce  causality  as a thought-form. If one clings to the Kantian 

assertion that of themselves concepts are empty, it would be impossible 

to use concepts to determine anything about the given world. Suppose 

two elements of the world-content were given: a and b. If I am to find a 

relation between them, I must do so with the help of a principle which 

has a definite content; I can only produce this principle myself in the 

act of cognition; I cannot derive it from the objects, for the definition of 

the objects is only to be obtained by means of the principle. Thus a 

principle by means of which we define objects belongs entirely to the 

 

conceptual sphere alone.  

Before proceeding further, a possible objection must be considered. It 

might appear that this discussion is unconsciously introducing the 

representation of the “I,” of the “personal subject,” and using it without 

first justifying it. For example, in statements like “we produce 

concepts” or “we insist on this or that.” But, in fact, my explanation 

contains nothing which implies that such statements are more than 

turns of phrase. As shown earlier, the fact that the act of cognition 

depends upon and proceeds from an “I,” can be established only 

through considerations which themselves make use of cognition. Thus, 

to begin with, the discussion must be limited to the act of cognition 

alone, without considering the cognizing subject. All that has been 

established thus far is the fact that something “given” exists; and that 

somewhere in this “given” the above described postulate arises; and 

lastly, that this postulate corresponds to the sphere of concepts and 

ideas. This is not to deny that its source is the “I.” But these two initial 

steps in the theory of knowledge must first be defined in their pure 

form.  

 

COGNITION AND REALITY  

 

CONCEPTS AND IDEAS, therefore, comprise part of the given and at 

the same time lead beyond it. This makes it possible to define what 

other activity is concerned in attaining knowledge.  

Through a postulate we have separated from the rest of the given 

world-picture a particular part of it; this was done because it lies in the 

nature of cognition to start from just this particular part. Thus we 

separated it out only to enable us to understand the act of cognition. In 

so doing, it must be clear that we have artificially torn apart the unity of 

the world-picture. We must realize that what we have separated out 

from the given has an essential connection with the world content, 

irrespective of our postulate. This provides the next step in the theory 

of knowledge: it must consist in restoring that unity which we tore 

apart in order to make knowledge possible. The act of restoration 

consists in thinking  about the world as given. Our thinking 

consideration of the world brings about the actual union of the two 

parts of the world content: the part we survey as given on the horizon of 

our experience, and the part which has to be produced in the act of 

cognition before that can be given also. The act of cognition is the 

synthesis of these two elements. Indeed, in every single act of 

cognition, one part appears as something produced within that act 

itself, and, through the act, as added to the merely given. This part, in 

actual fact, is always so produced, and only appears as something given 

at the beginning of epistemological theory.  

To permeate the world, as given, with concepts and ideas, is a thinking 

consideration of things. Therefore, thinking is the act which mediates 

knowledge. It is only when thinking arranges the world-picture by 

means of its own activity that knowledge can come about. Thinking 

itself is an activity which, in the moment of cognition, produces a 

content of its own. Therefore, insofar as the content that is cognized 

issues from thinking, it contains no problem for cognition. We have 

only to observe it; the very nature of what we observe is given us 

directly. A description of thinking is also at the same time the science of 

thinking. Logic, too, has always been a description of thought-forms, 

never a science that proves anything. Proof is only called for when the 

content of thought is synthesized with some other content of the world. 

 

Gideon Spicker is therefore quite right when he says in his book, 

Lessings Weltanschauung, (Lessing's World-View), page 5, “We can 

never experience, either empirically or logically, whether thinking in 

itself is correct.” One could add to this that with thinking, all proof 

ceases. For proof presupposes thinking. One may be able to prove a 

particular fact, but one can never prove proof as such. We can only 

describe what a proof is. In logic, all theory is pure empiricism; in the 

science of logic there is only observation. But when we want to know 

something other than thinking, we can do so only with the help of 

thinking; this means that thinking has to approach something given 

and transform its chaotic relationship with the world-picture into a 

systematic one. This means that thinking approaches the given world-

content as an organizing principle. The process takes place as follows: 

Thinking first lifts out certain entities from the totality of the world-

whole. In the given nothing is really separate; everything is a connected 

continuum. Then thinking relates these separate entities to each other 

in accordance with the thought-forms it produces, and also determines 

the outcome of this relationship. When thinking restores a relationship 

between two separate sections of the world-content, it does not do so 

arbitrarily. Thinking waits for what comes to light of its own accord as 

the result of restoring the relationship. And it is this result alone which 

is knowledge of that particular section of the world content. If the latter 

were unable to express anything about itself through that particular 

relationship established by thinking, then this attempt made by 

thinking would fail, and one would have to try again. All knowledge 

depends on man's establishing a correct relationship between two or 

more elements of reality, and comprehending the result of this.  

There is no doubt that many of our attempts to grasp things by means 

of thinking, fail; this is apparent not only in the history of science, but 

also in ordinary life; it is just that in the simple cases we usually 

encounter, the right concept replaces the wrong one so quickly that we 

seldom or never become aware of the latter.  

When Kant speaks of “the synthetic unity of apperception” it is evident 

that he had some inkling of what we have shown here to be an activity 

of thinking, the purpose of which is to organize the world-content 

systematically. But the fact that he believed that the a priori laws of 

pure science could be derived from the rules according to which this 

synthesis takes place, shows how little this inkling brought to his 

 

consciousness the essential task of thinking. He did not realize that this 

synthetic activity of thinking is only a preparation  for discovering 

natural laws as such. Suppose, for example, that we detach one content, 

a, from the world-picture, and likewise another, b. If we are to gain 

knowledge of the law connecting a  and  b, then thinking must first 

relate a to b so that through this relationship the connection between 

them presents itself as given. Therefore, the actual content of a law of 

nature is derived from the given, and the task of thinking is merely to 

provide the opportunity for relating the elements of the world-picture 

so that the laws connecting them come to light. Thus there is no 

question of objective laws resulting from the synthetic activity of 

thinking alone.  

We must now ask what part thinking plays in building up our scientific 

world-picture, in contrast to the merely given world-picture. Our 

discussion shows that thinking provides the thought-forms to which 

the laws that govern the world correspond. In the example given above, 

let us assume a to be the cause and b the effect. The fact that a and b 

are causally connected could never become knowledge if thinking were 

not able to form the concept of causality. Yet in order to recognize, in a 

given case, that a is the cause and b the effect, it is necessary for a and b 

to correspond to what we understand by cause and effect. And this is 

true of all other categories of thinking as well.  

At this point it will be useful to refer briefly to Hume's description of 

the concept of causality. Hume said that our concepts of cause and 

effect are due solely to habit. We so often notice that a particular event 

is followed by another that accordingly we form the habit of thinking of 

them as causally connected, i.e. we expect the second event to occur 

whenever we observe the first. But this viewpoint stems from a 

mistaken representation of the relationship concerned in causality. 

Suppose that I always meet the same people every day for a number of 

days when I leave my house; it is true that I shall then gradually come 

to expect the two events to follow one another, but in this case it would 

never occur to me to look for a causal connection between the other 

persons and my own appearance at the same spot. I would look to quite 

different elements of the world-content in order to explain the facts 

involved. In fact, we never do determine a causal connection to be such 

from its sequence in time, but from its own content as part of the 

world-content which is that of cause and effect.  

 

The activity of thinking is only a formal one in the upbuilding of our 

scientific world-picture, and from this it follows that no cognition can 

have a content which is a priori, in that it is established prior to 

observation (thinking divorced from the given); rather must the 

content be acquired wholly through observation. In this sense all our 

knowledge is empirical. Nor is it possible to see how this could be 

otherwise. Kant's judgments a priori fundamentally are not cognition, 

but are only postulates. In the Kantian sense, one can always only say: 

If a thing is to be the object of any kind of experience, then it must 

conform to certain laws. Laws in this sense are regulations which the 

subject prescribes for the objects. Yet one would expect that if we are to 

attain knowledge of the given then it must be derived, not from the 

subject, but from the object.  

Thinking says nothing a priori about the given; it produces a posteriori, 

i.e. the thought-form, on the basis of which the conformity to law of the 

phenomena becomes apparent.  

Seen in this light, it is obvious that one can say nothing a priori about 

the degree of certainty of a judgment attained through cognition. For 

certainty, too, can be derived only from the given. To this it could be 

objected that observation only shows that some connection between 

phenomena once occurred, but not that such a connection must occur, 

and in similar cases always will occur. This assumption is also wrong. 

When I recognize some particular connection between elements of the 

world-picture, this connection is provided by these elements 

themselves; it is not something I think into them, but is an essential 

part of them, and must necessarily be present whenever the elements 

themselves are present.  

Only if it is considered that scientific effort is merely a matter of 

combining facts of experience according to subjective principles which 

are quite external to the facts themselves, — only such an outlook could 

believe that a  and  b  may be connected by one law to-day and by 

another to-morrow (John Stuart Mill). Someone who recognizes that 

the laws of nature originate in the given and therefore themselves 

constitute the connection between the phenomena and determine 

them, will not describe laws discovered by observation as merely of 

comparative universality. This is not to assert that a natural law which 

at one stage we assume to be correct must therefore be universally valid 

 

as well. When a later event disproves a law, this does not imply that the 

law had only a limited validity when first discovered, but rather that we 

failed to ascertain it with complete accuracy. A true law of nature is 

simply the expression of a connection within the given world-picture, 

and it exists as little without the facts it governs as the facts exist 

without the law.  

We have established that the nature of the activity of cognition is to 

permeate the given world-picture with concepts and ideas by means of 

thinking. What follows from this fact? If the directly-given were a 

totality, complete in itself, then such an elaboration of it by means of 

cognition would be both impossible and unnecessary. We should then 

simply accept the given as it is, and would be satisfied with it in that 

form. The act of cognition is possible only because the given contains 

something hidden; this hidden does not appear as long as we consider 

only its immediate aspect; the hidden aspect only reveals itself through 

the order that thinking brings into the given. In other words, what the 

given appears to be before it has been elaborated by thinking, is not its 

full totality.  

This becomes clearer when we consider more closely the factors 

concerned in the act of cognition. The first of these is the given. That it 

is  given  is not a feature of the given, but is only an expression for its 

relation to the second factor in the act of cognition. Thus what the given 

is as such remains quite undecided by this definition. The second factor 

is the conceptual content of the given; it is found by thinking, in the act 

of cognition, to be necessarily connected with the given. Let us now ask: 

1) Where is the division between given and concept? 2) And where are 

they united? The answers to both of these questions are undoubtedly to 

be found in the preceding discussion. The division occurs solely in the 

act of cognition. In the given they are united. This shows that the 

conceptual content must necessarily be a part of the given, and also 

that the act of cognition consists in reuniting the two parts of the 

world-picture, which to begin with are given to cognition separated 

from each other. Therefore, the given world-picture becomes complete 

only through that other, indirect kind of given which is brought to it by 

thinking. The immediate aspect of the world-picture reveals itself as 

quite incomplete to begin with.  

 

 

If, in the world-content, the thought-content were united with the given 

from the first, no knowledge would exist, and the need to go beyond the 

given would never arise. If, on the other hand, we were to produce the 

whole content of the world in and by means of thinking alone, no 

knowledge would exist either. What we ourselves produce we have no 

need to know. Knowledge therefore rests upon the fact that the world-

content is originally given to us in incomplete form; it possesses 

another essential aspect, apart from what is directly present. This 

second aspect of the world-content, which is not originally given, is 

revealed through thinking. Therefore the content of thinking, which 

appears to us to be something separate, is not a sum of empty thought-

forms, but comprises determinations (categories); however, in relation 

to the rest of the world content, these determinations represent the 

organizing principle. The world-content can be called reality only in 

the form it attains when the two aspects of it described above have 

been united through knowledge.  

 

THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE FREE OF ASSUMPTIONS AND 

FICHTE'S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE  

 

WE HAVE NOW defined the idea of knowledge. In the act of cognition 

this idea is directly given in human consciousness. Both outer and 

inner perceptions, as well as its own presence are given directly to the 

“I,” which is the center of consciousness. (It is hardly necessary to say 

that here “center” is not meant to denote a particular theory of 

consciousness, but is used merely for the sake of brevity in order to 

designate consciousness as a whole.) The I feels a need to discover 

more in the given than is directly  contained in it. In contrast to the 

given world, a second world — the world of thinking — rises up to meet 

the I and the I unites the two through its own free decision, producing 

what we have defined as the idea of knowledge. Here we see the 

fundamental difference between the way the concept and the directly 

given are united within human consciousness to form full reality, and 

the way they are found united in the remainder of the world-content. In 

the entire remainder of the world picture we must conceive an original 

union which is an inherent necessity; an artificial separation occurs 

only in relation to knowledge  at the point where cognition begins; 

cognition then cancels out this separation once more, in accordance 

with the original nature of the objective world. But in human 

consciousness the situation is different. Here the union of the two 

factors of reality depends upon the activity of consciousness In all other 

objects, the separation has no significance for the objects themselves, 

but only for knowledge. Their union is original and their separation is 

derived from the union. Cognition separates them only because its 

nature is such that it cannot grasp their union without having first 

separated them. But the concept and the given reality of consciousness 

are originally separated, and their union is derived from their original 

separation; this is why cognition has the character described here. Just 

because, in consciousness, idea and given are necessarily separated, for 

consciousness the whole of reality divides into these two factors; and 

again, just because consciousness can unite them only by its own 

activity, it can arrive at full reality  only by performing the act of 

cognition. All other categories (ideas), whether or not they are grasped 

in cognition, are necessarily united with their corresponding forms of 

the given. But the idea of knowledge can be united with its 

 

corresponding given only by the activity of consciousness. 

Consciousness as a reality exists only if it produces itself. I believe that 

I have now cleared the ground sufficiently to enable us to understand 

Fichte's Science of Knowledge through recognition of the fundamental 

mistake contained in it. Of all Kant's successors, Fichte is the one who 

felt most keenly that only a theory of consciousness could provide the 

foundation for knowledge in any form, yet he never came to recognize 

why this is so. He felt that what I have called the second step in the 

theory of knowledge, and which I formulated as a postulate, must be 

actively performed by the I. This can be seen, for example, from these 

words:  

“The science of knowledge, insofar as it is to be a systematic science, is 

built up in the same manner in which all possible sciences, insofar as 

they are systematic, are built up, that is, through a determination of 

freedom; which freedom, in the science of knowledge, is particularly 

determined: to become conscious of the general manner of acting of the 

intelligence. ... By means of this free act, something which is in itself 

already form, namely, the necessary act of the intelligence, is taken up 

as content and put into a new form, that is, the form of knowledge or of 

consciousness. ...”  

What does Fichte here mean by the “acting of intelligence” if we 

express in clear concepts what he dimly felt? Nothing other than the 

production of the idea of knowledge, taking place in consciousness. 

Had Fichte become clear about this, then he would have formulated the 

above principle as follows: A science of knowledge has the task of 

bringing to consciousness the act of cognition, insofar as it is still an 

unconscious activity of the I; it must show that to objectify the idea of 

knowledge is a necessary deed of the I.  

In his attempt to define the activity of the I, Fichte comes to the 

conclusion: “The I as absolute subject is something, the being (essence) 

of which consists merely in postulating its own existence.” For Fichte, 

this postulation of the I is the primal unconditioned deed, “it is the 

basis of all consciousness.” Therefore, in Fichte's sense too, the I can 

begin to be active only through an absolute original decision. But for 

Fichte it is impossible to find the actual content for this original activity 

postulated by the I. He had nothing toward which this activity could be 

directed or by which it could be determined. The I is to do something, 

 

but what is it to do? Fichte did not formulate the concept of knowledge 

which the I must produce, and in consequence he strove in vain to 

define any further activity of the I beyond its original deed. In fact, he 

finally stated that to investigate any such further activity does not lie 

within the scope of theory. In his deduction of representation, he does 

not begin from any absolute activity of the I or of the not-I, but he 

starts from a state of determination which, at the same time, itself 

determines, because in his view nothing else is, or can be contained 

directly in consciousness. What in turn determines the state of 

determination is left completely undecided in his theory; and because 

of this uncertainty, one is forced beyond theory into practical 

application of the science of knowledge. However, through this 

statement Fichte completely abolishes all cognition. For the practical 

activity of the I belongs to a different sphere altogether. The postulate 

which I put forward above can clearly be produced by the I only in an 

act which is free, which is not first determined; but when the I cognizes, 

the important point is that the decision to do so is directed toward 

producing the idea of cognition. No doubt the I can do much else 

through free decision. But if epistemology is to be the foundation of all 

knowledge, the decisive point is not to have a definition of an I that is 

“free,” but of an I that “cognizes.” Fichte has allowed himself to be too 

much influenced by his subjective inclinations to present the freedom 

of the human personality in the clearest possible light. Harms, in his 

address,  On the Philosophy of Fichte, (p. 15) rightly says: “His world-

view is predominantly and exclusively ethical, and his theory of 

knowledge has no other feature.” Cognition would have no task to fulfill 

whatever if all spheres of reality were given in their totality. But the I, 

so long as it has not been inserted by thinking into the systematic whole 

of the world-picture, also exists as something merely directly given, so 

that it does not suffice to point to its activity. Yet Fichte is of the 

opinion that where the I is concerned, all that is necessary is to seek 

and find it. “We have to search for the absolute, first, and 

unconditioned fundamental principle of human knowledge. It cannot 

be  proven  nor  determined  if it is to be absolute first principle.” We 

have seen that the only instance where proof and definitions are not 

required is in regard to the content of pure logic. The I, however, 

belongs to reality, where it is necessary to establish the presence of this 

or that category within the given. This Fichte does not do. And this is 

why he gave his science of knowledge a mistaken form. Zeller remarks 

that the logical formulas by which Fichte attempts to arrive at the 

 

concept of the I only lightly hide his predetermined purpose to reach 

his goal at any cost, so that the I could become his starting point. These 

words refer to the first form in which Fichte presented his science of 

knowledge in 1794. When it is realized that, owing to the whole trend of 

his philosophy, Fichte could not be content with any starting point for 

knowledge other than an absolute decree, it becomes clear that he has 

only two possibilities for making this beginning appear intelligible. One 

possibility is to focus the attention on one or another of the empirical 

activities of consciousness, and then crystallize out the pure concept of 

the I by gradually stripping away everything that did not originally 

belong to consciousness. The other possibility is to start directly with 

the original activity of the I, and then to bring its nature to light 

through self-contemplation and self-observation. Fichte chose the first 

possibility at the beginning of his philosophical path, but gradually 

went over to the second.  

On the basis of Kant's synthesis of “transcendental apperception” [The 

perception of an object involving the consciousness of the pure self as 

subject. (Translator)] Fichte came to the conclusion that the activity of 

the I consists entirely in combining the material of experience into the 

form of judgment. To judge means to combine predicate with subject. 

This is stated purely formally in the expression: a == a. This 

proposition could not be made if the unknown factor x which unites the 

two a's did not rest on an absolute ability of the I, to postulate. For the 

proposition does not mean a exists, but rather: if a exists, then so does 

a. In other words there is no question of postulating a  absolutely. In 

order, therefore, to arrive at something which is valid in a quite 

straightforward way, the only possibility is to declare the act of 

postulating as such to be absolute. Therefore, while a is conditional the 

postulation of a is itself unconditional. This postulation, however, is a 

deed of the I. To the I is ascribed the absolute and unconditional ability 

to postulate. In the proposition a == a, one a is postulated only because 

the other a is already postulated, and indeed is postulated by the I. “If a 

is postulated in the I, then it is postulated, or then it is.” This 

connection is possible only on condition that there exists in the I 

something which is always constant, something that leads over from 

one  a  to the other. The above mentioned x  is based on this constant 

element. The I which postulates the one a  is the same as the I which 

postulates the other a. This means that I == I. This proposition 

expressed in the form of a judgment: If the I exists, then the I exists, is 

 

meaningless. The I is not postulated by presupposing another I; it 

presupposes itself. This means: the I simply is, absolutely and 

unconditionally. The hypothetical form of a judgment, which is the 

form of all judgments, when an absolute I is not presupposed, here is 

transformed into a principle of absolute existence: I simply am. Fichte 

also expresses this as follows: “The I originally and absolutely 

postulates its own being.” This whole deduction of Fichte's is clearly 

nothing but a kind of pedagogical discussion, the aim of which is to 

guide his reader to the point where knowledge of the unconditional 

activity of the I dawns in him. His aim is to bring the activity of the I 

emphatically home to the reader, for without this activity there is no I.  

Let us now survey Fichte's line of thought once more. On closer 

inspection one sees that there is a break in its sequence; a break, 

indeed, of a kind that casts doubt upon the correctness of his view of 

the original deed of the I. What is essentially absolute when the I 

postulates? The judgment is made: If a exists, then so does a. The a is 

postulated by the I. There can, therefore, be no doubt about the 

postulation as such. But even if the I is unconditioned insofar as its own 

activity is concerned, nevertheless the I cannot but postulate 

something. It cannot postulate the “activity, as such, by itself,” but only 

a definite activity. In short: the postulation must have a content. 

However, the I cannot derive this content from itself, for by itself it can 

do no more than eternally postulate its own postulation. Therefore 

there must be something which is produced by this postulation, by this 

absolute activity of the I. Unless the I sets to work on something given 

which it postulates, it cando “nothing” and hence cannot  postulate 

either. Fichte's own principle actually shows this: The I postulates its 

existence. This existence is a category. This means we have arrived at 

our principle: The activity of the I is to postulate, as a free decision, the 

concepts and ideas of the given. Fichte arrives at his conclusion only 

because he unconsciously sets out to prove that the I “exists.” Had he 

worked out the concept of cognition, he would then have arrived at the 

true starting point of a theory of knowledge, namely: The I postulates 

cognition. Because Fichte is not clear as to what it is that determines 

the activity of the I, he simply characterizes this activity as the 

postulation of being, of existence. In doing so, he also limits the 

absolute activity of the I. If the I is only unconditioned in its 

“postulation of existence.” everything else the I does must be 

conditioned. But then, all possible ways to pass from what is 

 

unconditioned to the conditioned are blocked. If the I is unconditioned 

only in the one direction described, it immediately ceases to be possible 

for the I to postulate, through an absolute act, anything but its own 

being. This makes it necessary to indicate the basis on which all the 

other activities of the I depend. Fichte sought for this in vain, as we 

have already seen.  

This is why he turned to the other of the two possibilities indicated for 

deducing the I. As early as 1797, in his First Introduction to the Science 

of Knowledge, he recommends self-observation as the right method for 

attaining knowledge of the essential being of the I:  

“Be aware of yourself, withdraw your attention from all that surrounds 

you and turn it toward your inner being — this is the first demand that 

philosophy makes on the pupil. What is essential is not outside of you, 

but solely within yourself.  

To introduce the science of knowledge in this way is indeed a great 

advance on his earlier introduction. In self-observation, the activity of 

the I is actually seen, not one-sidedly turned in a particular direction, 

not as merely postulating existence, but revealing many aspects of itself 

as it strives to grasp the directly given world-content in thinking. Self-

observation reveals the I engaged in the activity of building up the 

world-picture by combining the given with concepts. However, 

someone who has not elaborated the above considerations for himself 

— and who therefore does not know that the I only arrives at the full 

content of reality when it approaches the given with its thought-forms 

— for him, the process of knowledge appears to consist in spinning the 

world out of the I itself. This is why Fichte sees the world-picture more 

and more as a construction of the I. He emphasizes ever more strongly 

that for the science of knowledge it is essential to awaken the faculty for 

watching the I while it constructs the world. He who is able to do this 

appears to Fichte to be at a higher stage of knowledge than someone 

who is able to see only the construction, the finished product. He who 

considers only the world of objects does not recognize that they have 

first been created by the I. He who observes the I while it constructs, 

sees the foundation of the finished world-picture; he knows the means 

by which it has come into being, and it appears to him as the result of 

presuppositions which for him are given. Ordinary consciousness sees 

only what is postulated, what is in some way or other determined; it 

 

does not provide insight into the premises, into the reasons why 

something is postulated in just the way it is, and not otherwise. For 

Fichte it is the task of a completely new sense organ to mediate 

knowledge of these premises. This he expresses most clearly in his 

Introductory Lecture to the Science of Knowledge, delivered at Berlin 

University in the autumn of 1813:  

“This science presupposes a completely new inner sense organ, through 

which a new world is revealed which does not exist for the ordinary 

man at all.” “The world revealed by this new sense, and therefore also 

the sense itself, is so far clearly defined: it consists in seeing the 

premises on which is based the judgment that ‘something is’; that is, 

seeing the foundation  of existence which, just because it is the 

foundation, is in itself nothing else and cannot be defined.”  

Here too, Fichte lacks clear insight into the content of the activity 

carried out by the I. And he never attained this insight. That is why his 

science of knowledge could never become what he intended it to be: a 

philosophical foundation for science in general in the form of a theory 

of knowledge. Had he once recognized that the activity of the I can only 

be postulated by the I itself, this insight would also have led him to see 

that the activity must likewise be determined by the I itself. This, 

however, can occur only by a content being given to the otherwise 

purely formal activity of the I. As this content must be introduced by 

the I itself into its otherwise quite undetermined activity, the activity as 

such must also be determined by the I itself in accordance with the I's 

own nature. Otherwise its activity could not be postulated by the I, but 

at most by a “thing-in-itself” within the I, whose instrument the I would 

be. Had Fichte attempted to discover how the I determines its own 

activity, he would have arrived at the concept of knowledge which is to 

be produced by the I. Fichte's science of knowledge proves that even 

the acutest thinker cannot successfully contribute to any field of 

knowledge if he is unable to come to the right thought-form (category, 

idea) which, when supplemented by the given, constitutes reality. Such 

a thinker is like a person to whom wonderful melodies are played, but 

he does not hear them because he lacks an ear for music. 

Consciousness, as given, can be described only by someone who knows 

how to take possession of the “idea of consciousness.”  

 

 

Fichte once came very near the truth. In his Introduction to the Science 

of Knowledge (1797), he says that there are two theoretical systems: 

dogmatism — in which the I is determined by the objects; and idealism 

— in which the objects are determined by the I. In his opinion both are 

possible world-views. Both are capable of being built up into a 

consistent system. But the adherents of dogmatism must renounce the 

independence of the I and make it dependent on the “thing-in-itself.” 

For the adherents of idealism, the opposite is the case. Which of the 

two systems a philosopher is to choose, Fichte leaves completely to the 

preference of the individual. But if one wishes the I to retain its 

independence, then one will cease to believe in external things and 

devote oneself to idealism.  

This line of thought fails to consider one thing, namely that the I cannot 

reach any choice or decision which has some real foundation if it does 

not presuppose something which enables it to do so. Everything 

determined by the I remains empty and without content if the I does 

not find something that is full of content and determined through and 

through, which then makes it possible for the I to determine the given 

and, in doing so, also enables it to choose between idealism and 

dogmatism. This something which is permeated with content through 

and through is, however, the world of thinking. And to determine the 

given by means of thinking is to cognize. No matter from what aspect 

Fichte is considered, we shall find that his line of thought gains power 

and life when we think of the activity of the I, which he presents as grey 

and empty of content, as filled and organized by what we have called 

the process of cognition.  

The I is freely able to become active of itself, and therefore it can also 

produce the category of cognition through self-determination; in the 

rest of the world, by objective necessity the categories are connected 

with the given corresponding to them. It must be the task of ethics and 

metaphysics to investigate the nature of this free self-determination, on 

the basis of our theory of knowledge. These sciences will also have to 

discuss whether the I is able to objectify ideas other than those of 

cognition. The present discussion shows that the I is free when it 

cognizes, when it objectifies the ideas of cognition. For when the 

directly given and the thought-form belonging to it are united by the I 

in the process of cognition, then the union of these two elements of 

reality — which otherwise would forever remain separated in 

 

consciousness — can only take place through a free act.  

Our discussion sheds a completely new light on critical idealism. 

Anyone who has acquainted himself intimately with Fichte's system 

will know that it was a point of vital importance for this philosopher to 

uphold the principle that nothing from the external world can enter the 

I, that nothing takes place in the I which is not originally postulated by 

the I itself. Yet it is beyond all doubt that no idealism can derive from 

the I that form of the world-content which is here described as the 

directly given. This form of the world-content can only be given; it can 

never be constructed out of thinking. One need only consider that if all 

the colors were given us with the exception of one single shade, even 

then we could not begin to provide that shade out of the I alone. We can 

form a picture of distant regions that we have never seen, provided we 

have once personally experienced, as given, the various elements 

needed to form the picture. Then, out of the single facts given us, we 

combine the picture according to given information. We should strive 

in vain to invent for ourselves even a single perceptual element that has 

never appeared within our sphere of the given. It is, however, one thing 

merely to be aware of the given world: it is quite another to recognize 

its essential nature. This latter, though intimately connected with the 

world-content, does not become clear to us unless we ourselves build 

up reality out of the given and the activity of thinking. The essential 

What of the given is postulated for the I only through the I itself. Yet 

the I would have no occasion to postulate within itself the nature of 

something given if it did not first find itself confronted by a completely 

undetermined given. Therefore, what is postulated by the I as the 

nature and being of the world is not postulated without  the I, but 

through it.  

The true shape is not the first in which reality comes before the I, but 

the shape the I gives it. That first shape, in fact, has no significance for 

the objective world; it is significant only as a basis for the process of 

cognition. Thus it is not that shape which the theory of knowledge gives 

to the world which is subjective; the subjective shape is that in which 

the I at first encounters it. If, like Volkelt and others, one wishes to call 

this given world “experience,” then one will have to say: The world-

picture which, owing to the constitution of our consciousness, appears 

to us in a subjective form as experience, is completed through 

knowledge to become what it really is.  

 

Our theory of knowledge supplies the foundation for true idealism in 

the real sense of the word. It establishes the conviction that in thinking 

the essence of the world is mediated. Through thinking alone the 

relationship between the details of the world-content become manifest, 

be it the relation of the sun to the stone it warms, or the relation of the I 

to the external world. In thinking alone the element is given which 

determines all things in their relations to one another.  

An objection which Kantianism could still bring forward would be that 

the definition of the given described above holds good in the end only 

for the I. To this I must reply that according to the view of the world 

outlined here, the division between I and external world, like all other 

divisions, is valid only within the given and from this it follows that the 

term “for the I” has no significance when things have been understood 

by thinking, because thinking  unites all opposites. The I ceases to be 

seen as something separated from the external world when the world is 

permeated by thinking; it therefore no longer makes sense to speak of 

definitions as being valid for the I only.  

 

EPISTEMOLOGICAL CONCLUSION  

 

WE HAVE ESTABLISHED that the theory of knowledge is a science of 

significance for all human knowledge. The theory of knowledge alone 

can explain to us the relationship which the contents of the various 

branches of knowledge have to the world. Combined with them it 

enables us to understand the world, to attain a world-view. We acquire 

positive insight through particular judgments; through the theory of 

knowledge we learn the value of this insight for reality. Because we 

have adhered strictly to this absolutely fundamental principle and have 

not evaluated any particular instances of knowledge in our discussion, 

we have transcended all one-sided world-views. Onesidedness, as a 

rule, results from the fact that the enquiry, instead of first investigating 

the process of cognition itself, immediately approaches some object of 

this process. Our discussion has shown that in dogmatism, the “thing-

in-itself” cannot be employed as its fundamental principle; similarly, in 

subjective idealism, the “I” cannot be fundamental, for the mutual 

relationship of these principles must first be defined by thinking. The 

“thing-in-itself” and “I” cannot be defined by deriving one from the 

other; both must be defined by thinking in conformity with their 

character and relationship. The adherent of scepticism  must cease to 

doubt the possibility of knowing the world, for there is no room for 

doubt in regard to the “given” — it is still untouched by all predicates 

later bestowed on it by means of cognition. Should the sceptic maintain 

that our cognitive thinking can never approach the world, he can only 

maintain this with the help of thinking, and in so doing refutes himself. 

Whoever attempts to establish doubt in thinking by means of thinking 

itself admits, by implication, that thinking contains a power strong 

enough to support a conviction. Lastly, our theory of knowledge 

transcends both onesided empiricism  and onesided rationalism  by 

uniting them at a higher level. In this way, justice is done to both. 

Empiricism is justified by showing that as far as content is concerned, 

all knowledge of the given is to be attained only through direct contact 

with the given. And it will be found that this view also does justice to 

rationalism  in that thinking is declared to be both the necessary  and 

the only mediator of knowledge.  

 

 

The world-view which has the closest affinity to the one presented here, 

built up on epistemological foundations,  is  that  of  A.  E.  Biedermann. 

But to establish his standpoint, Biedermann uses concepts which do 

not belong in a theory of knowledge at all. He works with concepts such 

as existence, substance, space, time, etc., without having first 

investigated the process of cognition alone. Instead of first establishing 

the fact that in the process of cognition, to begin with, two elements 

only are present, the given and thinking — he speaks of reality as 

existing in different forms. For example, he says:  

“Every content of consciousness contains two fundamental factors; two 

kinds of existence are given to us in it, and these opposites we designate 

as physical and spiritual, or as bodily and ideal.” (¶ 15) “What exists in 

space and time is material, but the foundation of all processes of 

existence, the subject of life, this also exists, but as an ideal; it has ideal 

being.” (¶ 19)  

Such considerations do not belong in a theory of knowledge, but in 

metaphysics, which in turn can be established only by means of a 

theory of knowledge. Admittedly, much of what Biedermann maintains 

is very similar to what I maintain, but the methods used to arrive at this 

are utterly different. No reason to draw any direct comparison has thus 

arisen. Biedermann seeks to attain an epistemological standpoint by 

means of a few metaphysical axioms. The attempt here is to acquire 

insight into reality by observing the process of cognition.  

And we believe that we have shown that all conflicts between world-

views result from a tendency to attempt to attain knowledge of 

something objective (thing, I, consciousness, etc.) without having first 

gained a sufficiently exact knowledge of what alone can elucidate all 

knowledge: the nature of knowledge itself.  

 

PRACTICAL CONCLUSION  

 

THE AIM OF THE preceding discussion has been to throw light on the 

relationship between our cognizing personality and the objective world. 

What does the possession of knowledge and science mean for us? This 

was the question to which we sought the answer.  

Our discussion has shown that the innermost core of the world comes 

to expression in our knowledge. The harmony of laws ruling 

throughout the universe shines forth in human cognition.  

It is part of man's task to bring into the sphere of apparent reality the 

fundamental laws of the universe which, although they rule all 

existence, would never come to existence as such. The very nature of 

knowledge is that the world-foundation, which is not to be found as 

such in objective reality, is present in it. Our knowledge — pictorially 

expressed — is a gradual, living penetration into the world's 

foundation.  

A conviction such as this must also necessarily throw light upon our 

comprehension of practical life.  

Our moral ideals determine the whole character of our conduct in life. 

Our moral ideals are ideas which we have of our task in life — in other 

words, the ideas we form of what we should bring about through our 

deeds.  

Our action is part of the universal world-process. It is therefore also 

subject to the general laws of that world-process.  

Whenever something takes place in the universe, two things must be 

distinguished: the external course the event follows in space and time, 

and the inner law ruling it.  

To recognize this law in the sphere of human conduct is simply a 

special instance of cognition. This means that the insight we have 

gained concerning the nature of knowledge must be applicable here 

also. To know oneself to be at one with one's deeds means to possess, as 

knowledge, the moral concepts and ideals that correspond to the deeds. 

If we recognize these laws, then our deeds are also our own creations. 

 

In such instances the laws are not something given, that is, they are not 

outside the object in which the activity appears; they are the content of 

the object itself, engaged in living activity. The object in this case is our 

own I. If the I has really penetrated its deed with full insight, in 

conformity with its nature, then it also feels itself to be master. As long 

as this is not the case, the laws ruling the deed confront us as 

something foreign, they  rule  us; what we do is done under the 

compulsion they exert over us. If they are transformed from being a 

foreign entity into a deed completely originating within our own I, then 

the compulsion ceases. That which compelled us, has become our own 

being. The laws no longer rule over  us;  in  us they rule over the deed 

issuing from our I. To carry out a deed under the influence of a law 

external to the person who brings the deed to realization, is a deed 

done in unfreedom. To carry out a deed ruled by a law that lies within 

the one who brings it about, is a deed done in freedom. To recognize 

the laws of one's deeds, means to become conscious of one's own 

freedom. Thus the process of knowledge is the process of development 

toward freedom.  

Not all our deeds have this character. Often we do not possess 

knowledge of the laws governing our deeds. Such deeds form a part of 

our activity which is unfree. In contrast, there is that other part where 

we make ourselves completely at one with the laws. This is the free 

sphere. Only insofar as man is able to live in this  sphere, can he be 

called moral. To transform the first sphere of our activity into one that 

has the character of the second is the task of every individual's 

development, as well as the task of mankind as a whole.  

The most important problem of all human thinking is: to understand 

man as a free personality, whose very foundation is himself.